To Love a Spy
by Cat On a Hot Tin Roof
Summary: Draco romance in the midst of the worst war the wizarding world has ever seen. "Look, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the troubles of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world." Rick Blaine
1. Prologue

A/N: I am very nearly finished with this piece, and will be posting at regular intervals, depending on the response I get. I apologize if this first chapter is mostly background, but the story needed it. I promise the intrigue and adventure will start in the next chapter. This is a Draco romance, but it's also a war story. Trenches, deaths, spies, the lot. Enjoy! Oh, and do give my OC a chance ... I know her circumstances are cliched, but she gets more interesting as a character as the story goes on.  
  
To Love a Spy  
  
By Cat On a Hot Tin Roof  
  
Prologue  
  
"Who d'you have there, Laura?"  
"Number eighteen."  
"He behavin' himself?"  
"Oh, he's feeling macho. He'll settle down." Laura Taylor patted the neck of the horse she was leading vigorously. It threw its head up playfully, jogging a few steps. She jerked the chain across its nose a little, bringing it back down to a resigned walk. She was filthy all over: coated in mud and dirty, soapy water. Hay was sticking to her hair and her hands were oily from saddle soap. Her ripped tee-shirt was a dingy brown all over and her jeans were splashed with granite dust and dirt. There was a gray streak across her face where she had rubbed the sweat off. Her palms were scraped and scabbed in places and there were calluses there from hefting hay bails. Hot walking horses at a racetrack every morning will do that to a person.  
The horse suddenly spooked, leaping up into the air and trying to twist itself away from Laura. As soon as his feet hit the ground, before he could go up again, she hauled hard on the shank, yanking him as hard as she could. The horse stood stock still, quivering all over, nostrils flaring, the whites of his eyes showing. He looked ready to bolt again at any second.  
"Whoa, handsome – settle down there, horse," she said soothingly. Slowly, the animal began to relax and lower his head. "Okay there, handsome, walk on!" She clucked a little, but the horse didn't move. She tugged on the shank, but the horse still didn't move. It took her a moment to realize that the horse wasn't quivering anymore. As a matter of fact, it wasn't moving at all. Confused, she looked around her to see another hot walker and his horse, standing still as statues. What was going on?  
It had been so long since Laura had been a part of the magical world that she had almost forgotten to read the signs. There was some familiar twinge in the back of her mind, but it took her a few moments to connect it with the past she had spent so many years trying to bury. Finally, though, she recognized the twinge and she looked around her for the caster of the spell. She was not unwary: this kind of big magic in an exclusively muggle society was a dangerous risk, and she did not know exactly who might take that risk, and for what purpose.  
She relaxed when Dumbledore stepped out of a stall, half-moon spectacles resting on his crooked nose, looking as familiar and beneficent as the last day she had seen him, almost two years ago. She smiled a little.  
"I thought I would see you again someday," she said.  
"Yes. Leaving your wand with me left it almost inevitable," said Dumbledore, smiling as well. "You seem to have been looking after yourself." He observed her appearance amusedly.  
A little warily, she let go of the shank. It fell loosely to the ground. Stepping away from the frozen horse, she flexed tired muscles and said,  
"Yeah, I've done alright. What's got you all the way to Virginia, U.S.A.? It can't be just small-talk."  
"Laura, I have come to ask for your help."  
She looked up sharply and started to back away from him. She stopped when she bumped into the frozen horse.  
"No. Uh-uh. No way. I said two years ago when I left, never again. I said I was leaving for good. I've spent two years forgetting. I'm not coming back."  
Dumbledore sighed.  
"Laura, please do not make your decision so hastily. There is much you do not know."  
"There is nothing you can tell me that will make me come," she said, firmly.  
"I cannot force you. But will you at least hear me out?"  
The look in Laura's eyes brought to Dumbledore's mind a muggle expression: deer in the headlights. She looked trapped and hunted. But even as she was afraid, he could see the indecision in her eyes as she weighed her options. He knew Laura, though, and knew that she would choose to hear him out. Her nature was far too inquisitive and far too duty-bound not to listen to what he had to say.  
"Alright," she said at last, not sounding happy with her decision. Follow me." Beating the dirt off of her hands on the thighs of her jeans, she led him to a stall that had been converted into an office. There was a beat-up desk in one corner and hooks with bridles and shanks hanging all around. A thick layer of dust, straw, and horse-hair was settled over everything. Laura sat down on the desk and pushed a brown, ripped-up roller chair towards Dumbledore, who sank down into it gracefully.  
"There are things that, when you left two years ago, I felt that you were not ready to know, that you could not know," began Dumbledore. "I still have no intention of telling you some of these things, but to tell you the things that I intend to, it is necessary for me to begin at the beginning, and you will have to bear with me while I retell parts you already know." She said nothing, but watched him quietly, waiting for him to go on.  
"When you arrived at Hogwarts in your first year, you were a tough little girl in a difficult situation. Repeatedly, I was amazed at the self- confidence that you possessed, even then. I did not think that you were quite strong enough then to know the truth about the death of your parents, but I felt in a few years that you would indeed grow to be mature enough. And, in your third year, I felt you responsible enough to hear the information that the father of a fellow-classmate had killed your parents and not act unaccordingly to that student. Once again, I was impressed with your self-control. You treated Draco Malfoy no differently than you had before, which was with surprising indifference for your young age.  
"When you both were appointed School Heads, I felt confident that you would handle the situation beautifully, and I hoped deeply that you would be able to impart some of that surprising wisdom you had to Mr. Malfoy. All throughout his Hogwarts career, I had been afraid for his future. Mr. Malfoy was always bright, but he had been led so far astray by his father that I feared he would never be swayed back to the side of right and good. You did more than I could ever hope, however: you began to turn Draco from a path that I had watched him tread for years with so much regret."  
"I didn't –"she began, bitterly, but Dumbledore interrupted her.  
"I must ask you please not to interrupt."  
"I'm sorry, Professor."  
"You are the kind of person that people are able to instinctively trust, and you bring out the honest side in people. I was not surprised to find that once Mr. Malfoy began to confide in you, he would begin to realize that he himself was not the person his father had shaped him to be. I was equally unsurprised to learn that he had fallen in love with you, and you with he."  
She looked away quickly, eyes fixing stubbornly on a crack in the wall. Why must Dumbledore bring up such painful memories?  
"I was also unsurprised that Draco did not choose to remain with you, but rather to obey his father's wishes once more."  
She looked up sharply.  
"At seventeen," said Dumbledore, kindly, "Draco Malfoy was neither strong enough nor mature enough to defy the father that had controlled and molded him his entire life, and you should not think less of him for it. The fact that he had such a difficult time making the decision proves the drastic change that he underwent.  
"So Draco went to his father's side and you continued your training outside of school, neither as happy as I would have liked to have seen you, but surviving nonetheless. I lost track of Draco for some time. I assumed that he was still undergoing his own form of training. Meanwhile, you became a trained auror, and soon became one of my top spies for the Order. I was continually amazed at the dedication with which you threw yourself into your work. I admit, I had underestimated the potency of what I had at first considered to be a school-days romance. I soon began to recognize the signs of a broken heart, and I was again unsurprised when you came to me the day we found out of Mr. Malfoy's eighth murder for Lord Voldemort and asked to be released from service. I was surprised, but gratified when you gave your wand to me for safekeeping: it gave me hope that perhaps one day you would return.  
"When you left, Voldemort had returned almost six years ago. He had remained, as I had assumed he would, quiet for the most part. He was busy gathering followers, and after the disaster he was faced with during your fifth year, he was not eager to make any mistakes. While murders were indeed occurring, Voldemort was taking very few risks. I am afraid things changed shortly after you left.  
"Here is where our stories diverge. You returned to your homeland, turning your back on the magical world in an attempt to heal your heart. I tracked Mr. Malfoy diligently, as he completed murder after murder."  
There was a twitch in her face and she pursed her lips tightly.  
"It has now been six years since you graduated from Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, "and the Order's need for you is greater than ever. Shortly after you left, Voldemort staged his first major attack on a little muggle village just south of London. Every woman and child was taken from the town and murdered. Their husbands found their bodies on a hilltop outside of town. The Ministry spent months modifying all of their memories and cleaning up the mess so that it appeared that there had been an epidemic in the town.  
"Since then, his attacks have only escalated, and our numbers have decreased. We are sorely out-numbered. As you know, the Ministry allied itself with the Order the year you left Hogwarts, but while they offer as much protection as they can, Cornelias Fudge remains so short-sighted that he will allow Ministry members few acts of any real risk. Most of the useful Ministry members are Order members, and they have to keep this double-role a secret, despite the fact that they are allies. It has become a very sticky political situation – we are united only in theory, not in practice. And so Voldemort's strength has grown. His Death Eaters are sweeping the country, killing at will. The Dementors have been turned loose to administer the kiss as they please. Muggles and wizards are dying by the handful. Not a day goes by that I do not hear of at least three casualties."  
Laura winced imperceptibly. She had been watching him with wide, horrified eyes. Things had not been so bad when she had left. They had held the advantage over Voldemort, or so it had seemed. Now, it was apparent that even then he had not been weak: merely biding his time until he had enough followers. And now they had come out in real strength.  
"The countryside is riddled with pockets of Dark Magic. People will touch a tree, or the side of a building, and the unlucky ones will connect with a pocket, and be killed. They are using spells that even I have never heard of. Order and Ministry members have been forced into hiding: we have secret keepers for the Ministry of Magic and Order Headquarters, and we have trenches dug all over England where members are hiding out. Everything that can be done, we are doing."  
He sighed a little.  
"I would not ask you to come back if it were not for the fact that I feel that this task is of utmost importance, and you can do it better than anyone."  
She looked over to him.  
"What is it? I mean, I'm not saying that I'll do it, but –"Her voice was hoarse.  
"One of the reasons that it has been so difficult for us to combat Voldemort's Death Eaters is that we never know when they will meet, or what they will do next. We have a spy inside Voldemort's ranks, but he is a mere assassin and knows little of their plans."  
"Snape?" she asked.  
"No. Severus Snape was killed a year ago."  
"Oh." It was all she could say. She had never cared for Snape, certainly, but she had never expected him to die. There were certain people whose ability to die seemed unreal. "Our spy has ascertained that Voldemort will be making an important move in a mere two weeks. Just how important, we do not know, but it is certain that will be substantial enough that even an assassin knows about it. We have got to know about this move, and I do not have enough men to spare to do this task and all the other things that must be done as well. I need someone with the capabilities to research this move, to find out exactly what Voldemort is planning, and plan countermeasures. I would not ask you to come back if I were not desperate."  
There was a long silence and Dumbledore regarded her carefully over the brim of his half-moon spectacles, his piercing blue eyes tired and sad.  
  
"I know this is difficult for you. But I am asking you to put your feelings aside for something greater. You have always been good at this. I ask you to show me your strength once more, and help us."  
He stared at her a long time, and he could see the defeat in her brown eyes. 


	2. A Broken Order

Chapter One: A Broken Order  
  
"And I talked a little while about the years  
I guess the winter makes you laugh a slower,  
Makes you talk a lower  
'Bout the things you could not show her.  
And it's been a  
Long December  
And there's reason to believe  
Maybe this year will be better than the last."  
  
Counting Crows, "Long December" (suggested music for listening)  
  
It had been two short days since Dumbledore had appeared on her figurative doorstep, and she was still feeling the surreality of it all. When she had left England, things had been well under control. She had been confident of the eventual success of the Order, and the defeat of Voldemort. Now, things had never looked darker. The England she had left was utterly gone, and in its place was a world riddled by Dark curses and World War I-esque trenches. The Dark Mark seemed to hover perpetually just over the horizon.  
Unable to travel by magic, she had flown back into Heathrow with an assurance from Dumbledore that she would be met by an Order member. The plane flight had passed in a blur. She had sat unthinking and unseeing in the uncomfortable economy class seats, unable to make her numb mind sort out why she was there. The past few days had passed in a haze of business as she prepared to leave home for an indeterminate time. She had to arrange for someone to take over her job as barn manager, had to close up the apartment, say a few good-byes ... there had been no time to think. And now afforded the time, she couldn't make the gears of her mind grind out of auto-pilot.  
Seeing the Order member woke her up a little. She had climbed off of the plane, feeling disoriented and lost, and claimed her one small bag. She had stood awkwardly by the baggage claim, waiting for someone to pick her up. And from halfway across the room she heard a loud, familiar voice yell,  
  
"Hey, Laura Taylor!" She looked up from the endless revolutions of the baggage claim to see a broad-shouldered, good-natured redhead striding across the way towards her. The man had a weather-beaten, freckled face with a muscular build. She recognized him instantly.  
"Bill!" she cried, ridiculously relieved to see a familiar face. Bill reached her in six long strides and enveloped her in a much needed hug which she returned eagerly. He held her away from him by the shoulders and took a good look at her.  
"Welcome to hell, kid!" he said boisterously, giving her an affectionate shake. "Where's your bag? Dumbledore's waiting."  
Without waiting for an answer, he kissed her on the cheek, picked up her bag, and started walking briskly out of the building. Laura followed at a fast walk. Bill led her to the third floor of the parking deck, where he pulled a set of car keys out his pocket and unlocked a beat-up Camry. Throwing her bag in the backseat, he opened the door for her.  
"I didn't know you knew how to drive," Laura said, curiously.  
"We've all had to learn. We spend so much time sneaking around incognito as muggles that it was unavoidable." Bill put the car in gear and drove out of the deck.  
"Are we going to Grimmauld Place?" asked Laura.  
"Yep," said Bill. "Mum's already set up your old room for you."  
A ten minute drive put Bill's car in front of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen Grimmauld Place. Laura grabbed her bag and was soon following Bill's agile steps up the stoop. She took in the street a little wonderingly. She had never thought that she would see this place again, yet here she was. It all looked so strangely familiar.  
She had almost no time to mull this over, however, as Number Twelve bloomed out between Eleven and Thirteen, like a weed exploding in the cracks of a sidewalk. Bill opened the door without hesitation and marched.  
"Well, I've brought home the prodigal daughter!" he yelled without pausing. He continued into the kitchen and Laura followed in his wake, feeling as if she would be crushed by his waves if she didn't keep up. The swinging kitchen door admitted her, and she found Molly and Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and Luna Lovegood seated around the wooden kitchen table. They all grinned broadly when they saw her, as if had only been gone a month instead of two years. She had never felt more awkward.  
Bill pulled out a chair for her and she sank down into it gratefully – her knees felt like someone had replaced them with jello.  
Harry leaned across the table and said,  
"So how are you?"  
"I'm good," she said, faintly.  
"What have you been up to these last few years?" He asked it as conversationally as if there was no war going on, as if she had merely taken a vacation.  
"I've been working at the racetrack. With horses," she clarified, needlessly.  
"Are you hungry?" asked Mrs. Weasley, kindly. Laura looked over to her, really taking her in for the first time. She was brought up short by what she saw. Molly Weasley had lost a lot of weight and there were hollow places under her eyes and in her cheeks. There was no harassed, merry glint in her eyes. Laura felt as if someone had slipped an ice cube in her stomach. There was something so grotesquely wrong with the way Mrs. Weasley was looking at her that she longed to run screaming from the tense room.  
"Um ... no, I'm fine."  
"Well, dinner's in about an hour, so you can eat then," said Mrs. Weasley.  
"And good thing, too, I'm starved," said Ginny, running a hand through her hay-wire red hair. Her hair color had softened since they had left Hogwarts and was an almost strawberry blonde color now. She looked little like the rest of the Weasleys: her face was rounder and prettier, not ruggedly good-looking like the boys. She did have Mrs. Weasley's brown eyes. And like Mrs. Weasley's eyes, they looked haunted and tired, as if the smile she grinned at Laura had not quite reached them. Laura remembered with a pang the time she and Ginny had hidden in an empty classroom and discussed Draco Malfoy.  
Harry, she noted with interest, had started brushing his wild hair off of his forehead, leaving his scar in plain view for all the world to see. She wondered briefly what had brought on this change.  
Luna Lovegood alone seemed unchanged. She was still as dreamy looking as ever. She was tracing a knot in the table with her forefinger and her wand was stowed behind her ear.  
They were all changed, and she felt like a stranger in their midst. Whereas once she had been a part of them, there was something so vastly different about them now that she could barely comprehend it. All she knew was that they had gone through some hell together, a hell that she had not yet seen. She had a feeling, though, that she would.  
"How many people are here?" she asked.  
"Well, Fleur is upstairs –"  
"Fleur Delacour?"  
"One in the same," said Bill, with a sudden, silly grin on his face.  
"What's that face?" Laura asked.  
"That face means Bill here's in love," said Harry, with a grin on his own face.  
"With Fleur?"  
"We're getting married as soon as the war's over," said Bill, with a wistful look on his handsome face. He brightened a little, smiling a little wickedly. "But I'm not the only one."  
"Who else?"  
Harry ducked his head a little and Laura looked at him suspiciously.  
"With who?" she asked.  
"Parvati," said Harry, blushing a little. Laura couldn't help but smile. Funny, she had expected to come back to only news of death, yet here was life, blooming under her nose.  
"So who else is here?"  
"Hermione and Ron, with Aidan –"  
"Who?"  
"Aidan, their son."  
"They have a son?!"  
"He's almost seven months now."  
Laura suddenly laughed.  
"Is he named Aidan after who I think he's named after?"  
"Who else!" said Ginny, with a laugh. "Aidan Lynch, Irish seeker."  
Laura thought back on the Quiddich World Cup before their forth year. She hadn't been able to go, but she had been thoroughly briefed by Harry and Ron afterwards. Ron and Hermione had finally gotten together, to the ultimate relief and amusement of the entire household, a few months before Laura had left. It had only taken years of bickering.  
"Anyway, so Tonks is here somewhere, and I think that's it at the moment ... Dumbledore's coming in tonight, and I think Mundungus Fletcher may be wandering through tonight. Moody's not due until tomorrow, but he should be here soon. And of course the usual traffic of people just in for breakfast, or to drop off reports," finished Ginny.  
"And George," said Luna, suddenly. "He is upstairs."  
There was a sudden, crushing silence. Laura looked about stunned, anxious. Why the silence? Mrs. Weasley was looking pinched, as if she was holding back tears, and Ginny was looking determinedly at her fingernails. Harry stood up.  
"Laura, have you been upstairs yet?" he asked.  
"N-no," she stammered.  
"I'll show you up," he said, touching her shoulder. She stood with a feeling of foreboding and followed Harry out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She noticed that the portrait of Mrs. Black was finally gone. She wondered if it had finally come unstuck with the death of the last of the Blacks. Even after eight years, the house still seemed empty to her without Sirius in it.  
By the time she had reached her room, she knew that Harry had taken her upstairs to tell her. She didn't know whether she was aching to know the truth, or whether she would rather bury her head under her pillow and never know. But she had to know who still lived and who had died. Putting it off would only make it more painful.  
Almost as soon as Harry had shut the door behind them, Laura turned to him.  
"Who?" she said.  
Harry sighed and turned away from her.  
"Fred," he said.  
Laura sucked in her breath. She felt a stab of almost physically painful regret and nostalgia as she thought of Fred's quirky, saucy grin, of his sense of humor and his unchecked tongue, of his kisses. They had dated briefly in her fifth year, but it was obvious to everyone that she was a rebound during the many tumultuous periods of his relationship with Angelina. She had been over Fred since before her sixth year began – he had been little more than a schoolgirl crush – but she would always hold a special place in her heart for both Weasley twins. Fred and Angelina had been married shortly after leaving Hogwarts. So he was dead.  
"How?" she asked.  
"There was a raid in Surrey, about twenty Death Eaters. Fred and Angelina went in, we thought it was only two or three of them. They fought – bravely – but they were outnumbered. Angelina died first – Fred was wounded and she was standing over him. Fred was tortured and killed." Harry's voice was mechanical, as if he were reciting a speech. She knew that it cost him to tell her these things. Laura closed her eyes and sank down on her bed. Fred would leave a hole that no one could ever fill. No one could have his boundless energy, no one could have his sense of trickery that could bring you up in the darkest of times.  
"And George is –"  
"He's alive," said Harry. "But he is -- not the same." Laura understood without him saying anything more. They had been "the twins" so long, they had been "Fred and George" so long, that she doubted George knew how to be just George. Half of his soul had been ripped away from him.  
Harry must have thought his task was finished, because he turned to leave. Laura stopped him, though.  
"Who else?" she asked.  
Harry froze at the doorway, his body rigid. He turned back in, though, and sank down on the bed next to her. His vivid green eyes looked dull and glassy, as if he was retreating into himself to tell this story. His face looked hollow and sad.  
By the end of the night, any illusions Laura still had about the condition of the Order were gone. There had been so many casualties, and so many of her friends had died. Lee Jordan was alive, but in much the same condition as Neville Longbottom's parents. He had been captured on a reconnaissance mission and tortured with the Cruciatus curse by Nott.  
Both Creevey brothers were long gone. Their precious over-exuberance had gotten them killed three years ago, when Laura was still with the Order. They had barely been in the Order for a year, still fresh-faced and young. Padma Patil was also dead before Laura had left.  
There were other surprises, though. Remus Lupin – the last of the Marauders – had been killed by Draco Malfoy. Anthony Goldstein and Katie Bell were also dead, along with countless others, both Order members and not. Arthur Weasley had also been killed. She knew now the reason behind Molly Weasley's face. She remembered Mrs. Weasley's bone-crunching hugs and felt now, that if she hugged her that hard, she might just turn into dust and blow away. Always Mrs. Weasley's greatest fear had been losing her family: she had, after all, the worst odds of anybody with nine of them to look after. Her face had hurt Laura more than anything else. Mrs. Weasley was a surrogate mother-figure to all the members of the Order, and she remembered clearly the nights Molly Weasley would sit up with her while she cried over Draco.  
Dinner that night was a quiet affair. The mention of George, and the look on Laura's face when she came down was enough to put a damper on the entire evening. She looked around the table and took all of it in. She could see the pain and hollowness in all of the Weasley children's eyes, too. They had lost a father and a brother. Two brothers, really, for when Fred Weasley died, George had effectually died, too. He still lived and breathed and did his duty for the Order, but there was no doubt that when he went out on missions, he desired little more than to do his job and not come back alive. Watching him at the dinner table made her realize the mere shell that he was.  
So much had been lost that Laura could hardly bear it. She spent the first night of her return huddled under the covers of her bed, shaking, too sad to cry. She remembered Mrs. Weasley used to always fret about her family constantly, but now she seemed to say nothing about them: what she had always feared had begun, and she was losing them one by one. There was nothing she could say to them that would do any good. Laura hated to see her so hopeless.  
But the situation was hopeless. She saw as soon as she returned exactly how bad things were and why her job was so vital. There would be two weeks to prepare for it, two weeks in which to gather her emotions about her and do her job. She wondered in despair if Dumbledore had been right to choose her for this all-important task. She wondered if she could do it.  
It was nine o'clock in the morning on her first morning at the Order when there was a light knock on her door. She stood up, sleepless for so long that she was already awake, and padded to the door. She was barefoot, dressed in only a nightgown. Opening the door, she saw Ron Weasley standing in the doorway. Twenty-three years old now, he looked years older than his age. There were worry lines creasing his forehead and a perpetual frown on his handsome face. His hair was as red as ever and his eyes were still big and round, though sad behind the glasses he now wore. Laura could see that the years and the death had pushed Ron to grow into an adult by the time he turned twenty. There was little sadness, death, or destruction that his eyes had not seen. He was not the bumbling, awkward teenager he had once been.  
There was something about his demeanor, though, that was different. He had just as much cause as anyone else to appear sad and hopeless, yet he did not. He was sad, certainly, and worried, but he was not hopeless. She puzzled over the reason why. He hugged her tightly, holding on to her for a moment.  
"How are you?" he asked. His voice had changed. It was slow and deliberate now.  
"I'm good," she whispered, wishing that she could spend the rest of her life being slightly crushed by someone who loved her.  
"I'm glad you're back."  
She said nothing to this. She wasn't sure yet whether she was glad or not.  
Ron stepped back and took a seat on the edge of her bed. She sat beside him and there was a long silence. At last Ron asked gravely,  
"I suppose you've been caught up on ... everything."  
"Oh, Ron," she whispered. "There's so many – so many of them."  
"I know."  
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Seeing Ron one-on-one, not at that horrible dinner, had made her want to do what she had not done yet, and cry. She clenched her throat and did not let herself, however. Running a hand over her haphazard hair, she asked,  
"Is Dumbledore here?"  
"No, he was only here for a few hours last night, but he'll be back tonight. He left word that he wanted to see you as soon as he returned." She nodded and reached for her wand. Tapping herself twice on the shoulder, she changed instantly into a pair of Wranglers and a tee-shirt.  
"Haven't changed too much, have you?" asked Ron, with a little grin.  
"No," she said. "Very little, in fact. You, though ... I barely recognized you." Ron grinned.  
"What is that grin?" she asked.  
Sheepishly, Ron ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously mussing it.  
"Well, ah –"he stalled.  
"Spit it out, Weasley!" she said, smiling at his discomfort.  
"I – uh, I have a son," he said at last.  
Laura laughed. So that was the explanation behind the difference in his mood.  
"Aidan. I know."  
"Do you?"  
"With Hermione. That's wonderful, Ron."  
Everyone's marrying their high school sweethearts, she thought. She kept the "except me" part of her thoughts firmly silenced. Harry and Parvati, Hermione and Ron, Fred and Angelina ... The laugher fell from her face as she thought of Fred and Angelina. Ron noticed the change and patted the bed next to him. She sat down heavily and he put his arm around her.  
"Oh, Ron –"she sighed, leaning into his shoulder. "I thought that when I came back, things would be different than when I left. And they are. But they're worse. I was talking to Tonks last night – we're so badly outnumbered, and so many of our friends are gone. It's never going to be the same, is it?"  
Ron shook his head.  
"No. No, it never will."  
She wanted so badly to start crying, to pour out all of her woes. She wanted to cry for Colin, for Dennis, for Mr. Weasley, for Fred and George ... So particularly for Fred and George. She could hardly think of George as living without his twin, though she knew he sat downstairs at that very moment. How would the Order keep its spirits up without their exuberant sense of humor? It had never occurred to her, in all her years of knowing them that they someday might not be there. She wanted to cry for Remus Lupin, whose quiet guidance had always steered her in the right direction.  
She couldn't cry, though. Not to Ron. Aidan or no, he carried too many burdens for her to add to them. They all did. They had all seen this death and destruction, had all lived through it. She had merely heard about it. Stiffening her spine, she sat up straight and said,  
"I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to go off like that."  
"That's all right."  
She shook her head.  
"I won't do it again." Standing up and squaring her shoulders, she said, "I think I'd better go get some breakfast now. I'll see you later, okay?"  
"Okay."  
Walking out of her room, she passed down the familiar corridors of Number 12, and into the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the stove, prodding some sausages with her wand.  
"Oh, Laura, I was just about to bring some breakfast up for you."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley." She gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. "I'd love some." She sat down at one end of the huge wooden table in the kitchen. How many rowdy dinners did she remember at this table? Last night's dinner had been quiet and subdued. Everyone spoke in whispers and the loudest noise was Mundungus Fletcher's chewing.  
Turning he mind away from her memories, she studied Mrs. Weasley as she prepared a plate. No, she could never cry, never hurt in front of any of these people. She had lost much, but they had lost more. How selfish would she be, to elevate her own demons over theirs? She remembered the story Harry once told her, when he had walked in on Mrs. Weasley, trying to combat a boggart who was taking turns appearing as a member of Mrs. Weasley's family, lying dead. Two of those visions had already come to pass. How many more would before this war was over?  
Stop it, Laura instructed herself firmly. Stop thinking about it. It won't help matters. You'll just turn yourself into a human hosepipe and you know that can only hurt.  
Mrs. Weasley plunked a plate in front of her just as the door swung open and Ron stepped in. Laura winced a little, but he behaved as if nothing had happened. She took the moment to study him a little more. He was as tall as ever, though he had finally outgrown the gangliness that had plagued his youth. He was muscular and handsome, and his eyes had darkened a shade or two. They were no longer they eyes of a little boy with a thirst for adventure and a crush on Hermione Granger: they were the eyes of a husband, and a father, and a soldier. He was smiling at his mother in a way Laura had never seen him smile at her. She realized that it was because he no longer feared her. Mrs. Weasley had always been the most feared member of the whole Weasley family, but the death of two members of this family had left her hollow and empty and unable to dole out that anger anymore. Ron, Ginny, Charlie, and Bill were taking care of Mrs. Weasley now, instead of the other way around. George was unable to help anyone anymore, and no knew of Percy's whereabouts. It was a wound Mrs. Weasley had buried deep inside of her years ago, and it startled Laura that she had not remembered the third Weasley child until then.  
Ron kissed his mother on the cheek and sat down next to Laura, stealing one of her sausages. Laura mock-sighed.  
"Well, I suppose it's back to having my meals filched right out from underneath my nose."  
"Right you are," said Ron, helping himself to a bite of her toast. Laura snatched it out of his fingers.  
"Ron, I'm hungry!" she said. He shrugged.  
"Hey, Mum, you want to scramble up some more of these eggs?" he asked, pointing at Laura's plate.  
"I don't know how you're still hungry, you had four earlier," said Mrs. Weasley. Again, Ron shrugged, and Mrs. Weasley started cooking again. While he waited, Ron stole back the toast and for Mrs. Weasley's benefit, asked Laura how she was.  
"I'm okay," she said. "It's good to see everyone again."  
That was an empty nicety – they both knew there were many whom Laura would never see again – but Ron skated over the unpleasant side to the comment as if it did not exist. It was much easier to pretend she had merely been gone on vacation and had returned home to find things just as she had left them.  
She had already begun to notice a pattern, here. They lived from moment to moment, trying not to dwell on memories, either happy or sad. One moment they could be tense and sad, and the next, laughing, and the next merely exchanging niceties. It was a strange way to life, she reflected, but an emotional survivalist tactic.  
Before Ron could respond, the door swung open again, and an agitated Hermione Granger stalked into the room.  
"Ron Weasley, there you are!" She had a baby with a crop of brown hair the same color as Hermione's propped on her hip, and the baby was making a snatch at Hermione's still-bushy locks.  
Ron arranged his face into innocent lines.  
"Have you been looking for me?"  
"You know perfectly well that I've been looking for you! I cannot look after this child, write up those reports for Dumbledore, and deal with that damned niffler too!"  
"Niffler?" asked Laura curiously.  
"Yes, niffler!" said Hermione, too distracted to say good morning. Some things never change, Laura thought contentedly. "Ronald ran across one in Bosnia last month and decided to realize his childhood dream of owning one!" Uh-oh, thought Laura. She only calls him Ronald when she's really mad at him. "And now's it's absolutely torn apart the bathroom again! There's toothpaste absolutely everywhere! It has got to go!" Her voice had reached screaming pitch and Laura saw Tonks poke her head in the door, see the source of the noise, and beat a hasty retreat. It appeared that Hermione had taken over Mrs. Weasley's position of Head Shouter And Disciplinarian. Ron, meanwhile, was cringing.  
"I'm sorry, Hermione, darling, just as soon as I get out of the house again I'll donate him to SLUMA," he promised. The Society For Lost And Unwanted Magical Animals was roughly the equivalent of the muggle SPCA.  
"You'd better!" Hermione said, with a puff. She was winding down and she turned to Laura and said,  
"Good morning, Laura. How are you?"  
"I'm marvelous," said Laura, laughing a little at Hermione's abrupt change in mood, so much like Mrs. Weasley's. "How's Aidan this morning?" Leave it to Ron to name his first-born after a Quiddich player, she thought with another laugh.  
"He's just fine. What have you got planned for today?"  
"I don't know," she admitted. "Dumbledore wanted to see me, but I don't think he's coming back until tonight. So I've got a clean slate."  
"Wonderful," said Hermione. "You can help me write up these reports for Dumbledore. It will help you catch up on everything you've missed."  
"Love to." Popping the last sausage into her mouth, Laura stood up and followed Hermione to the living room that had been converted into somewhat of an office. There were papers piled up haphazardly on every possible open space. Hermione waved a casual arm at them.  
"We need to sort all of these into dates. They should all be dated, and when we've done that, they all need to be organized into specific topics and missions. Then, we compile them into reports for each mission. That means writing them over, although I've come up with a handy little charm that will do that part for us."  
"Great," groaned Laura, looking at the mountains of papers before her. "See you next year, then."  
"Oh, it's not that bad," said Hermione, cheerfully, always voracious when it came to anything involving pen and paper. Setting Aidan down in his playpen, she pulled a large stack off of an arm chair and set to work creating piles. Laura turned her attention to the particularly daunting pile perched precariously on the mantle.  
Some of the reports were dated from as far back as June, almost a month ago, so there were soon piles all across the floor. Laura didn't read any of the contents just now; she knew they would get to that later. She began to recognize the handwriting of various Order members as she went, however, as each document was headed with the name of the writer and the date. She knew Harry, Ron, and Hermione's instantly, of course. Mundungus Fletcher's she knew quickly because he consistently forgot to put his name on them at all and she'd had to ask Hermione. Tonks had short, spiky writing, and George's was scrawled and barely legible.  
Sorting the papers by date took them the better part of two hours, and it was another one to get them all in order by names within the dates. At two o'clock, Hermione had to stop and go feed Aidan, so Laura sat down by herself to start organizing the reports into specific missions.  
Here was one George had been on, spying on a man they suspected to be a Death Eater. He was indeed one, and George had recorded as much information about the man as he could. It appeared that he gone on that mission alone, but there were several other dates scrawled at the bottom, obviously other dates he had spied on the man. Also that day had been a far more dangerous mission to rescue an Order member Laura didn't know from the hands of Crabbe and Goyle, senior. He had been captured and was awaiting Voldemort's arrival when Order members snatched him from the jaws of certain death.  
There were other kinds of reports, too. There were sheets upon sheets of attacks on Order members, muggles, and wizards alike.  
And sheet after sheet bore the phrase "murdered by Draco Malfoy". She counted unconsciously, hardly able to bear that the number was six by the time she had finished. And that was only for a month.  
When Hermione had returned, Laura was still working feverishly. A strange, angry glow had come over her features and her posture was rigid and uncomfortable. It was as if a demon had possessed her, driving her to work without pause for breath.  
"Slow down, Laura, Dumbledore's not due back for a few hours, at least."  
"I'm fine," she said, shortly.  
Hermione sat down and shook her head, pulling the last pile towards her. She didn't know what had set Laura off like this. Very few people did know that Laura had once been attached to Draco Malfoy – Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Dumbledore, in fact, were the only ones.  
By four-thirty, Hermione was casting the spell to recopy all of the reports, and the two women sat back tiredly. Laura cracked her neck and looked over to Hermione with studied nonchalance.  
"Hermione, do we have dossiers on all the Death Eaters still?"  
"Of course."  
"Are they still in that closet?" She indicated one half-way across the room.  
"Yeah, help yourself. What do you want to see?"  
"Just wanted to browse a little," Laura lied. Hermione shrugged.  
"Alright. I'm going to go try and clean up that bathroom."  
"Okay. Goodbye."  
"Bye."  
As soon as she was sure that Hermione was out of the room, Laura hurried over to the closet and pulled it over. Running her fingers over the shelves of folders, she located the one, nearly bursting at the seams, labeled Draco Malfoy. Locking the door, she settled herself on the floor with the folder in front of her.  
She poured over the folder with a sense of guilty fascination, though she knew technically she did no wrong. But how badly she needed to know, wanted to know. The more she read, however, the more she wished she had never known. But she could not stop herself.  
She searched frantically for some signal, some sign that some good remained in Draco Malfoy. She hunted in vain, however, for murder after murder piled up in front of her eyes, Remus Lupin and Katie Bell among countless others. Both muggles and wizards, and Order members. All had disappeared without a trace, destroyed without mercy. Only the very first, a muggle-born wizard, a single mother by the name of Carolyn Moorer, had been found and buried, her face still open in a silent scream. Her two children, strangely, had been left untouched, but they had died anyway: left alone in the flat, they had starved, for no one learned of Moorer's death for almost a week. Laura's face twisted in pain when she thought of that particularly display of cruelty.  
This she remembered clearly, for Malfoy had killed Moorer three years ago, when Laura had still been with the Order. Eight more had followed before she had broken. She had been able to hold her professional mask on, to do her job well and keep her mind an emotional blank, when Draco had remained inactive, presumably still completing his training. Then, there had still been hope that he might turn back, might still fight his way free of Lucius's grasp. But when the murders began, that hope had been extinguished as easily as a candle, blown out as quickly as it took to perform Avada Kedavra. He didn't even have the sympathy to leave the bodies for mourning families. Knowing he was lost had destroyed Laura's ability to function in the world of wizards. If there was no hope for the person that she had been so sure had been good at heart, then certainly there was no hope for any of them. And she had made the decision to snap her wand and leave the wizarding world forever.  
For some reason or another, however, she had been unable to destroy her wand. She had paced her room for hours that long night when she made the decision, trying to force herself to break it across her knee, but she couldn't do it. So the next morning, a dry-eyed but exhausted looking Laura had given her wand to Dumbledore, asking him to hold it for her. And she had turned and left, flying out of England, back to America, without even looking back. She had turned her thoughts away from Malfoy, Voldemort, and anything that reminded her of the wizarding world, and turned them to horse racing, allowing the work she did to suck up her entire life, as horse racing is apt to do. She became immersed in a professional life, became immersed in horses again, and worked hard at forgetting the past.  
It had almost worked, too. But with Dumbledore's return, all the memories had come crashing back onto her.  
There were thirty-six murders total. Thirty-six and counting. In the beginning, they had been few and far between, but as time continued to pass, they were drawing closer together.  
She closed the folder with a heavy sigh, and she straightened her back with resolve. She could not allow herself to be plagued by memories and emotions concerning Draco Malfoy. He was no different than any other Death Eater. She had a job to do here, and by God she would do it. There was a war to be won, and there were people to be saved. She mustn't permit her own emotions to get in the way, particularly when the emotions of other people were so much more fragile, and in need of care.  
As she returned the folder back to the closet, she vowed silently not to allow herself to look at it again, not unless absolutely necessary to her work. Checking the clock, she realized it was almost eight, and that Dumbledore ought to be back soon. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she was hungry as well. Laura slipped into the study, where Dumbledore sat behind a gigantic mahogany desk. He looked up benignly when she entered.  
"Ah, good evening, Laura."  
"Good morning, Dumbledore. You wanted to see me?"  
"Yes, I did. I wanted to discuss your assignment. I would not ask you to jump in so soon, but time is precious to us. We have fourteen days exactly."  
"You needn't worry about me. When I came back, I came back to do a job, and I intend to do it."  
Dumbledore nodded, noticing the distinct change about her. The woman he had fetched from Virginia had been weak and recuperating. He had begun to have second thoughts about her ability to do what he asked of her. All his doubts vanished as he saw her now, however. Something that he did not know had stiffened her resolve. Something had made her refuse to be frail and emotional. She was thoroughly professional now. This was different even from the strong, professional woman that she had been six years ago when she began her training as an auror, and four years ago when she had begun to work for the Order. There had always been a twinge of emotion about her then, always a hint behind her eyes that she was holding down tears. There was also always a sense of hope. Now, there was nothing. There was no sadness, and no hope, either. Her eyes were emotionless orbs, waiting patiently for him to begin speaking.  
"As I said, we have two weeks. You will need to gather all of the information that you possibly can prior to this. You will be planning and leading any countermeasures."  
She nodded, absorbing the information and storing it away mechanically to be dealt with at the appropriate time. Dumbledore had thought he would do anything to see the perpetual pain in her eyes go away, yet he liked even less the emptiness that had appeared in lieu of it. He did not like to think that the pain had gone away at the price of losing her hope as well.  
"We have folders of all the information we have collected, and it would behoove you to research it thoroughly. Time is very short here." He peered at her over his spectacles for a short moment.  
"There is little more that I can tell you. Do you have any questions?"  
She pulled the folder of information across the desk to her and shook her head.  
"Good. Then good luck."  
Laura made to stand up, but he stopped her.  
"How are you doing?" he asked.  
"I'm doing fine," she said, casually. Dumbledore shook his head.  
"Don't close yourself off, Laura," he said gravely. "You will exhaust yourself. Putting off feeling will only make it that much more difficult when you must feel."  
She shrugged.  
"I'm fine, Professor, really. Don't add me to your worries." She was out of the room before he could respond.  
Shaking his head sadly, Dumbledore pulled the piles of reports on his desk towards him and began to rifle through them. 


	3. Insomnia

A/N: So, here's Chapter Two. Review, darlings! Por favor! Things are going to start to really get interesting after this chapter, which is the introduction of Draco, yee-haw!  
  
Oh, I thought I might explain why I decided to create an OC. Originally, this was intended to be a Draco-Hermione story, and you can read it as such if you wish. I chose not to make it that, however, because frankly, as enjoyable as those are to read, I just don't see Hermione with Draco. I see her with Ron. And I usually am a Harry-Ginny fan, but for some reason, decided that he should be with Parvati. I think this may be Ginny-Dean eventually. If I get around to it. But anyway, I get annoyed with those stories where Hemione is just ridiculously out of character – sultry, sexy, and yet – still a bookworm? What is that? Anyway, it gets on my nerves, and I'd rather create my own OC than screw up J.K. Rowling's Hermione. Oh, and I guess I need a disclaimer: Only Laura belongs to me. Please don't steal her...  
  
Chapter Two: Insomnia  
  
"Place my hands flat on my chest  
I feel the heartbeat back the night  
I try counting the sheep and I talk to the shepherd  
Play with my pillow forever and ever.  
I sit alone and I watch the clock  
I breathe in on the tick and out on the tock.  
I can hear your bare feet on the kitchen floor  
I don't have to hide these dreams no more  
I found someone just to hold me tight.  
Hold me, Insomniac, all night.  
I dig my head down deep  
So I can't hear the cars  
Outside on the street  
And the stars a-laughing.  
They get a kick out of my misery.  
I've tried everything short of Aristotle  
to Dramamine and the whiskey bottle.  
I pray for the day when my ship comes in  
And I can sleep the sleep the sleep of the just again.  
  
"Insomniac" (If anyone knows the artist of this song, please let me  
know!) (suggested music for listening)  
  
Draco Malfoy was asleep in his bed when the burning on his forearm that could mean only one thing occurred. He jerked convulsively when he felt it and awoke, frowning, with a start. He had only just gotten to sleep – was there no rest for the weary?  
That was a stupid question, he told himself bitterly. The Dark Lord gave his followers no time to rest for that afforded them time to think, perhaps to think of defection. Well, it was too late for that now.  
Sighing, Draco Apparated with a crack. He hadn't even bothered to get undressed when he collapsed on his bed, two hours ago. It was getting on to four o'clock now.  
The meeting this time was in a field behind the Nott Manor. All the Death Eaters had manors – it would be beneath them not to have one. The Malfoy Manor was, of course, the most fabulous and ornate.  
The meeting was short and to the point, a mere dispensing of assignments. Draco received the name and location of his next murder. He did note with interest that his father was not present. Two Order members had broken up the meeting a little early, but they fled when they saw how outnumbered they were. It was very little time before Malfoy was back in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, sleepless once more.  
The ceiling was ornate, covered in gold-leafed pictures and figures. He sighed as he stared at it. He had seen it so many times that its various depictions – the wizard harnessing the unicorn, for instance – were so familiar to him that he barely saw them anymore. He had for a long time seen them for what they were – propaganda placed there from his earliest days, seemingly innocent enough, but planting a seed that his father assumed would flower healthily in his son. It did not occur to Lucius that Draco would discover that unicorns were not meant to be harnessed, whatever Lucius might think. It might have taken him until his seventeenth year to realize it, but he had realized it nonetheless, just as he realized the depiction of a pureblood wizard with silver hair and golden robes leading a muggleborn slave about was wrong.  
But he had been angry about this ceiling long ago, and just as long ago gotten over his anger, for it was unproductive. And Draco could afford to be nothing but carefully productive.  
He sorted through his plans for the murder, plotting it down to the last detail. When he was certain he had covered it from all angles, he turned his mind to trying to sleep.  
Thoughts of Laura were unproductive, but slightly more difficult to squash than his anger about the ceiling. She seemed to invade his mind when he least needed her there. The night he had left he had virtually assured that he would always be able to banish her when he had other matters on his mind. But at times when he had nothing to force his mind to occupy itself with, she would return, sometimes smiling at him, sometimes crying for him. A hundred times he wondered where she was, what she was doing. A thousand times he went over their kisses, a million times he regretted never telling her he loved her.  
Had Draco Malfoy been allowed to find someone else to love, he might have, in six years, gotten over Laura Taylor. The trouble was the startling lack of women to love. Oh, there were women. There were the daughters of his father's Death Eater friends. But they were as evil as the men who had conceived them. There were the women with whom he had stolen moments with above bars and saloons, but his interest in them was purely carnal, as was theirs. And so, the fact remained that Draco Malfoy remained in love with Laura. Honestly, he admitted to himself that he was probably in love with mere shadow and memory, and that chances were, she was not the same woman anymore. She was probably married with children by now. She probably was not even the saint he remembered.  
The trouble was, Draco did not remember a saint. He remembered a real woman, and he loved and cherished her flaws just as he loved and cherished her virtues. He felt as if he had examined every one over and over. For someone who had not seen her in six years, he mused, he might know he better than anyone else.  
But the fact still remained that while he was trapped in a world from which he could not escape to find someone knew (and how many miserable, sleepless nights he wished that he could), she was not, and in reality probably had found someone else. For the first few years, he had wondered if perhaps she had waited for him, but he knew this was merely wishful thinking: when he had left that night, it had been irrevocable. He was gone forever. He was a Death Eater. And even if there had been a way to escape, to go to her, she would not want Death Eater for a lover. She was too good to be touched by that evil, anyway.  
Draco ground the heel of one palm into his forehead, trying to force thoughts of her out of his head. He could still hear her bare feet on the floor of the common room, could still hear her laugh, could see her grinning on a hippogriff, challenging him. Could still feel her kisses. He had hoped these thoughts might dim over the years, that he could distract himself into forgetting about them. But far from it, with no life outside of his career as a Death Eater, she was the one good thing he held onto.  
Giving up on sleep, Malfoy stood up and began sorting through his mail. There were two pieces of junk mail, which he binned, and a letter from his father, which he unfurled with resignation.  
I am in France and will not be returning for a few days at least. There is a French Ministry Auror there who is causing some trouble and must be dealt with accordingly. In the meantime, I hope that you are keeping yourself busy doing our Lord's bidding.  
I received an interesting bit of news the other day. That Muggle with whom you were forced to share a dorm with during your final year at Hogwarts, has apparently returned to England. We still do not know where she has been these last two years, but it seems that she is once more working for Albus Dumbledore and his little league of freedom fighters. Now would be a prime time for you to dispose of her and punish her for her insolence that year. I do not presume to give orders on our Lord's behalf, but I imagine were you to execute her, you would be looked favorably upon. I know that it is frustrating for you to hold the position as a mere assassinator, but I heard wind the other day that a promotion night be coming your way if you play your cards right.  
Draco sucked in his breath. Laura was back in England? The last news that he had of her was two years ago, and she was leaving the country. No one knew where she had gone.  
It felt as if a cold stone had been dropped down in his stomach. If he was ordered to kill her ... Thank God his father had merely suggested and not ordered. But were he not to act on the suggestion, his father would be suspicious, and would probably inform Lord Voldemort, which could have direct repercussions on his standing within Voldemort's ranks. And that position, at the moment, was far too precious to risk. Far too precious, and far too precarious. He needed a bump into a higher position so that he might be let onto more valuable information to pass along.  
Malfoy kneaded his knuckles into his forehead, leaning his elbows on the desk with a groan. He had to get some sleep or he was not going to be able to function in the morning.  
Lying back down in bed, he mulled over his father's letter. As always with Lucius's letters, the threats were veiled and the tone was cordial. However polite Lucius's letters might be, they were categorically dangerous. Malfoy had learned to deal with them carefully, planning his response to each and every one in detail.  
Draco had long past the age in which he did everything his father said, or ordered. He held no fear of the man any longer: Lucius had done the worst thing he could possibly do to Draco, and he left nothing for him to fear. Draco was left with little personal fear of his father. As a matter of fact, Draco was left with little personal fear of anyone. However, things far greater than his own personal safety rode on how Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort saw Draco. And as much as he despised his role in the world, his position in Voldemort's ranks was vastly more important than his own feelings. Thus, obeying, or giving the semblance of obeying, his father, had repercussions, both good and bad, on more people than himself.  
For almost a year now, Draco Malfoy had been feeding information along to Albus Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore himself knew. Unfortunately, Draco was only an Assassin. True, he was Voldemort's chief and most talented Assassin, but he was still only an Assassin: brute labor, so to speak. He had not yet been let in on the more intricate workings of Voldemort's ranks. However, as time passed, the knowledge he was being passed was steadily growing. He had, after all, learned of and been invited to the meeting at the Malfoy Manor that was to occur in two weeks. He knew little more than the location and the time, but he knew that it was vastly important to Voldemort. He had passed what little he knew on to Dumbledore, amongst other things. It was a stressful life, playing both sides of the game. There was a constant chance he might be discovered by Voldemort or his father, yet the reason Malfoy was afraid was not because of the certain death that would be subsequent to his discovery. He feared, instead, of the lives that would be lost, and the source that was so vitally important to the Order which would also be lost. That the source was himself was of little concern to Draco.  
In the six years since Draco had left Hogwarts, he had grown into a man. The seventeen year old boy who had been unable to defy his father was gone. There are things that cannot happen to a person and not force him to mature into a man. Losing the love of your life and turning your back on evil are two. Giving all of yourself to the cause of good and right is another. All of this had, however, been at the expense of any personal emotion Draco might have had as a result of his year with Laura.  
Sleep, he tried to command himself. Mentally, he counted sheep, but quit after three hundred. Rolling over once again, it occurred to Draco that he was hot and he peeled out of his shirt, reveiling a well-muscled chest littered with curse scars. His life had not been an easy one. As it often did on long nights such as this, Draco's mind wandered to Carolyn Moorer and her children.  
He remembered the long night before the day in which he was due to murder her. He remembered rolling his wand over and over in his hands and lying awake just like this, tossing and turning. There was a red-hot iron poker in his stomach that made him feel as if he might throw up. He had still been such a boy, then: he had been so afraid. He wasn't even sure what he was afraid of. His father, mostly. Of what he might say if he failed. And on the same hand, he was frightened of killing. What a boy he had been then. He was not frightened for the people whose lives he would be taking, but was frightened of his own emotions when he killed them.  
As well he should be. He had crept into the woman's flat, the mast of stealth, and he had found her, nursing her child. She had been in her kitchen with the lights off, trying to soothe the child into sleep. As soon as she spotted him, she set the child down and dove for her wand. Draco was quick, though, and he whispered those two evil words, which coming from his own mouth, would haunt his dreams for the next three years:  
"Avada Kedavra."  
He had been unable to kill the two children. The sight of the woman lying dead, unblemished and unmarked, on the ground, had proved too much for Draco. It horrified him. He remembered leaning over the sink, retching over and over until his stomach was empty and he was merely spitting bile. He leaned on the sink weakly, shaking all over and covered in a cold sweat. He tried to raise his wand to kill the first child, to finish the task, to avoid his father's wrath, but he could not bring himself to. He could not bring himself to kill that child. Nor could he kill the child in the other room. He did not know what he would say to his father when he returned, but he could not worry about that now. He could only touch the forehead of the squalling baby, and run out of the apartment.  
There was a driving rain outside, soaking him almost instantly. He ran for miles down the street, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. Feeling as if someone had wrapped a vice around his chest, he dropped to his knees in the mud just outside of town. The rain poured down over him and he cried.  
He had ended a woman's life – senselessly. He had ended it as quickly and as easily as he stomped out a bug. So this was what killing was. He wondered if any of the other Death Eater's felt this driving, gnawing regret that was so strong as to imitate physical pain. The tears poured silently out of his gray eyes and mixed with the rain. For a long time, he didn't even realize he was crying. He didn't recognize the feeling, did not understand the fist that was clamped relentlessly around his windpipe. He cried until he had no more tears left, and then he stood and Apparated back to his father's side.  
The Draco who returned to Lucius's side was not the Draco who had left, though. Lucius credited it to the strain of committing his first murder, but in truth it was Draco's transformation from boy to man. He had shaken hands with the devil and come out on the other side, not unscathed, but victorious.  
When the news came a week later that the two children had been found dead, Draco's change was complete. He knew the costs now: he knew that every move he made impacted not only himself, but other people. And so he took careful measures. He planned as obsessively as Voldemort himself. And each time he was asked to perform a murder, he would place the intended victim into a sleep only the counter-spell could awake them from, and he hid them. He had hunted all over until he found the appropriate place: a cave in France that had once been considered for a tourist spot, but abandoned. He had placed as many protective charms around it as humanly possible, made himself its own secret keeper, but sometimes late at night he would still worry that it had been discovered and that the thirty-six bodies now lying asleep, not needing food or water or care, were in danger.  
  
Draco mentally kicked himself, trying to force away the image of Carolyn lying dead on her kitchen floor. She had been a pretty young woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Her eyes had been drowsy from sleep and her hair had been mussed in every direction. He wondered vaguely sometimes if she had not died, if she might have been the one to make him forget Laura.  
She was dead, though, and he could not forget Laura. All he could do was pour himself a glass of Firewhiskey and prepare himself for the start of another long day. 


End file.
